


tell me our story

by Anemoi



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-07
Updated: 2015-05-07
Packaged: 2018-03-29 09:30:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3891265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anemoi/pseuds/Anemoi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>long distance not-relationships are the <i> worst </i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	tell me our story

**Author's Note:**

> tbh- i know little about isco and morata, and even less about the turin metro system. do let me know if its wildly out of character for them, since its a first time writing thing <3

Alvaro wasn't good at handling his liquor, this Isco knows. His face gets red, flush all up on to his cheeks and dipping low on his chest, and his movements become slower and more deliberate, and he tends to drape his arms over Isco, getting ten times more affectionate. Isco was one of those people who didn't really feel the drinks. He was just- himself, _maybe_ more excited, certainly not on Alvaro's level. They'd met up outside the hotel Real was staying in, Isco making excuses to the rest of the team about “going out to have a drink alone.” Iker had looked straight through his lies, but said nothing. He didn't know what Alvaro had said to his Juve teammates, but then again, Isco didn't care about Alvaro's team mates.

Alvaro's hair was slowly wilting, his fringe flopped over his forehead. Isco watches him take another shot of tequila determinedly, putting a hand over his mouth with a grimace.

Isco sighs, reaches out and nudges over half the row of shots to his side. Alvaro looks at him with wounded puppy eyes.

“No.” Isco says. He looks at his watch, and it was, strangely enough, only midnight.

Alvaro groans. “We're celebrating.”

“No.” Isco says again, “ _You're_ celebrating. I'm drowning my sorrows.” He downs a shot. At least it was good tequila, he thinks, which was hardly any consolation.

Isco regrets it when Alvaro looks morose immediately, mouth drawing down and eyebrows knitted. Alvaro folds his arms on the bar table and rests his chin on them, not looking at Isco.

“Sorry.” Isco says, not meaning it. Alvaro knows it and shifts his head to look at him, snorts and smiles despite himself.

Isco shrugs and smiles back. “You enjoyed scoring, don't even try to hide it.”

Alvaro grimaces. It was the only word for something that started off a smile and then ended up looking pained and somewhat guilty. Isco reaches over and pats his thigh. “We were kind of shit.”

“ _You_ weren't shit.” Alvaro says. “Neither was _James.”_

Isco gives him a look. “What are you trying to say, Morata.”

Alvaro raises one shoulder and lets it drop. He knocks back another tequila.

Isco lets it go. “You could have celebrated, you know.”

Alvaro rolls his eyes. He sneaks a shot from Isco's pile, and Isco was too busy trying to stack his shot glasses together in a pyramid to stop him. “I couldn't have. They would have burned my effigy at Cibeles. Can you imagine? _Morata enjoys revenge against Real._ Marca would have a field day.”

Isco pauses. He has three shot glasses lined up, two balanced on top of them in a truly staggering feat of engineering. He needs one more to complete the pyramid, but Alvaro was holding on to his, morosely flicking peanuts in to it.

“You _know_ they're going to have a field day anyway. How can anyone resist?”

“It's not my damn fault, is it?” Alvaro says suddenly, viciously despairing, and then its awkward, because it was true, and Isco had no answers to offer as consolation.

They sat in silence for a bit, until Alvaro filled his entire tiny glass with peanuts and allowed Isco to stack it with the rest. Isco yawns and stretches, the long day getting to him. He glances at Alvaro and catches him looking at the way Isco's shirt rode up, exposing the line of his stomach. Isco raises his eyebrows. Alvaro blushes, mumbles something that sounded like an apology.

There was no time, anyway, Isco thinks, half regretful. Or, maybe, if they'd skipped the whole bro-drinking expedition and gone straight to Alvaro's- Well. If Isco had _known –_ Well. Isco shakes his head. He leans in and slaps the back of Alvaro's neck, says, “Okay. I have to go. We're leaving at 7am tomorrow. Fucking incredible. I'm going to be hungover on the plane.”

Alvaro looks like he wanted to say something, his mouth already shaping the words. But instead he says, “You're never hungover.” Isco bumps his shoulder with his own, and rolls his eyes. They're laughing when they stagger out of the bar together, Isco stepping on the shadows of Alvaro's footsteps, their arms pressing heavy against each other as they walk, shoulder to shoulder under the streetlights.

 

 

-

 

“Take this train. It'll take you. Straight to your, hotel.” Alvaro was leaving weird pauses in the middle of his sentence, which wasn't a good sign. They were in an underground metro station, night breeze ruffling Alvaro's hair. Isco takes the ticket from him and squints at it. He doesn't understand any of the words and feels concerned for a moment before realizing that it was in italian.

“Okay.” He says. And then, “Wait. Why can't I take a cab?” Isco says, confused.

Alvaro grabs his shoulders, looking him in the eye very seriously. “Turin is beautiful at night. You _have_ to see it. Just go. It stops right before your hotel.”

“Oh.” Isco says. “I'm almost certain you're confusing the metro with a tram line.”

Alvaro frowns. “I bought you a ticket already. Fernando told me how to, when we went to visit – uh- tall building, a dome-?” Alvaro's making gestures with his hands and Isco is fed up. Isco didn't give a damn how beautiful Turin was, or how wonderfully Fernando Llorente had helped Alvaro settle in.

“-And I'll take the opposite line.” Alvaro announces, triumphant. “It's a metaphor.” He adds, glancing at Isco out of the corner of his eye, like he'd said the most profound thing in existence.

Then he frowns, because Isco was laughing, biting the back of his hand to stifle the giggles.

“You're so goddamn dramatic, Morata.”

Alvaro looked like he wanted to cry. His eyes were very red and he kept rubbing at them, fidgeting on his feet.

“Okay. Sorry. Okay!” Isco says hurriedly, tugging at his arm. Alvaro nods and stretches, looking up at the steel and glass ceiling of the station. Isco keeps his hand on his arm, rubbing soothing circles on to the fabric of his jacket. 

Then they stare at each other, but neither of them can look each other in the eye. There was no one around them, not even a harried businessman taking the last train home from a long day at work. But there were probably surveillance cameras. Isco looks at the shape of Alvaro's mouth and commits it to memory. Alvaro looks at him oddly, and shuffles in closer. Isco anticipates what he was about to do, and knows it was too late for him to do it. It was too late- better to have nothing than just a taste of it. 

Instead Isco holds out his arms and walks in to Alvaro, nose bumping against his collarbone. Alvaro makes a choked off noise and hugs him back, too tight, crushing Isco to him. Isco closes his eyes for a moment, winds his hands in Alvaro's hair, thinks,  _ right, okay, next time, okay.  _ Then he pushes Alvaro away.

  “Your train's on the other side of the platform.” He says. 

  Alvaro looks like he was really crying now, or maybe he was just drunk. He nods, sniffs once, clasps Isco's hand. Isco feels a weird, stabbing pain behind his eyes.

  “Go. Jesus.” Isco says. A polite female voice was announcing the arrival of a train in italian, cool and impersonal. 

  Isco watches Alvaro board, then watches his train pull out of the station, taillights twinkling and then disappearing around the bend. Then he waits around for two minutes more while his own train stubbornly refuses to arrive and the clock goes to 1:28 am and he's wondering about the schedules for last trains and slowly getting more panicked. He contemplates leaving and getting a cab, Alvaro's dumb life metaphor be damned. He contemplates texting Iker, but decides it was too embarrassing, and anyway, here was his train, finally pulling in to the station. All he has to do now is board and ride it 5 stops. 

 

-

 

Alvaro calls him before he even gets to the first stop. Isco stares at his phone with a rising fondness in his chest, dumb and childish. He tries to suffocate it, but it was like trying to keep a ball underwater. It rose through his chest, airy. He slides the green button across and puts it to his ear.

Alvaro doesn't speak on the other line, and all Isco can hear is just sniffles and breathing. Isco's smiling, looking at his own reflection in the dark glass. His mouth trembles a little, a blurry line cut through by the flash of tunnel lights as they pass by. They're both young, Isco tells himself. They have time. They're going to be seeing each other in less than two weeks, anyway.

But everything still hurt and it felt like an ending, ( even though it wasn't, _ it wasn't) _ , and Turin was so many miles from Madrid and Isco hated the bloody city. How dare it be so beautiful. How dare it keep Alvaro here, ensconced in its beauty. 

He slides down the side of the train car to sit on the floor of the metro even though all the seats were empty, and closes his eyes, listens to Alvaro breathe on the other line, not speaking at all, till the rocking motion of the metro car brings them both to their separate destinations.

 


End file.
